


seats reserved for heroes

by narqueen



Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: (to WORSE enemies), Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Post-Canon, Yonvers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 01:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narqueen/pseuds/narqueen
Summary: Carol, Yon-Rogg, and all the hurt thereafter. This will end in war.





	seats reserved for heroes

Carol Danvers walks into a bar on the moon. There is no punchline, no ulterior motive, no cosmic joke. Carol Danvers has had a long day, so she enters some ramshackle shack in Quadrant Y-67 and asks for enough alcohol to take out a Sakaardian beast. 

“I’m having fun tonight,” she tells the barkeep. “So keep ‘em coming.”

Perhaps Carol should not be announcing her intentions to get drunk to a backwater company of alien inhabitants. Perhaps she should not be so secure in her strength. But if there are any perks to being Captain Marvel, chief among them is that Carol never has to worry about the things she’d always been lectured over: _don’t drink too much, don’t go out alone, don’t talk to strangers at night._ Carol Danvers wants to drink, and so she will.

By the third round, her mind begins to wander. So much of Carol’s time is dedicated to good causes: to keeping the Skrulls safe, to resolving border conflicts, et cetera, et cetera. She does not mind; she loves the work. 1995 feels like an eon ago, a blur of major life events that had managed to topple and reassemble her world within the same space of time.

Except — the nightmares have returned, and they have taken a different shape.

Carol did not know that trauma could occur in reverse. Presumably, the happy-ending of her reunion with Maria and the reclamation of her identity would obliterate any old ties to the six years she spent on Hala. But things have long-since settled, and things seldom remain uncomplicated.

She realizes, now, that Yon-Rogg had indulged in her coping mechanism in a way that was counter-productive. Rather than learn to deal with the refraction of her memories in a constructive way, he’d permitted her wake him up on a whim, to spar whenever her subconscious refused to settle down. In real life, such therapy was never on-demand.

Tonight, the universe is quiet. No dispensation of justice is necessary. So, Carol Danvers is having a drink.

* * *

At approximately twenty-three hundred hours, Carol cuts herself off — not because she is particularly inebriated, but because she recognizes the irresponsibility of it. Sure, any idiot could square up with her and still lose (even if she _was_ wasted) but Carol refuses to foster another bad habit. Just because she cannot punch away her problems does not mean she should resort to substance abuse.

_Maybe Talos has some suggestions,_ she muses, transferring the necessary credits at the counter, _a meditative routine, maybe. Pinball machine relaxation-fixation._

This moon is barely more than a pit-stop, with only a refueling station and a cluster of supply stores to its name. To the left, there’s a gray landing stripe; to the right, there is a forest, comprised entirely of spiny black thorn.

And, smack-dab in the middle of an empty shuttle lot, is Yon-Rogg.

She is not surprised to see him. The universe has a way of arranging events in a manner that is both cruel and convenient. “How’d you find me?”

Something akin to amusement ghosts across his features. “It was simple. I followed the trail of reckless philanthropy.”

Pride wells up in her, unbidden. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do as you will. I’ve come to collect you on behalf of the Kree empire,” he says, slipping into a dignified, no-nonsense tone she recognizes from many-missions past, “for your defection to the Skrull forces and your subsequent collusion with their leader on C-53.”

“Oh, no.” Ropes of energy loop past her nails. “What’s a girl to do?”

“You will not make this difficult.” His eyes flit to her hands. “Not again.”

“Scared?”

“Pragmatic.”

“You know I can beat you.” Humor colors her voice. “Didn’t know you liked it so much the first time.”

His smile lacks mirth. “Always with the smart remarks. You’re not as funny as you think, Vers.”

“ _Carol,_ ” she corrects, plainly. “My name is _Carol._ ”

“You’ll always be Vers to me.”

She blasts him for that, sending Yon-Rogg careening across purple dirt. He pinwheels once, twice, before skidding against a brown crumble of brush. There are a few shocked gasps from the locals behind her; a glass shatters to the ground. Nonplussed, Carol walks to Yon-Rogg’s fallen form, already taking out a set of cuffs.

“Are you done now?” He rolls over, hair frizzed and chalky with dust. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Carol gives the cuffs a tug; they go solid and bright, ready for use. “Stick out your wrists, would you?”

“We have your family.”

Carol freezes. Maria blooms in her mind’s eye, with Monica following shortly thereafter. “What?”

Yon-Rogg wipes his nose. “The Terran woman and her child. Your fellow pilot. We have them. We collected them last week —”

Another blast across the dirt, sending him nearly a half a mile further than the first one. Carol doesn’t waste time walking; instead, she flies, every fiber of herself bursting over with photon energy, every hair lifted with a rainbow sheen. She grabs Yon-Rogg by the front of his suit, crumpling the green breastplate as she does so, lifting him off the ground.

“Where are they?!” Her entire body is alight with power. “Where _are_ they?!”

“I don’t know. And if you do not leave me unharmed, I’ll never know. That’s the deal.”

“I’ll kill you,” she snarls. “I swear, if you hurt them, I’ll kill you.”

Yon-Rogg tips his head back. “I told you,” he breathes, “that anger only serves the enemy.”

Carol cries out; raises her fist. Yon-Rogg flinches, but keeps his gaze steady. “This is not a conflict you can fight your way out of,” he insists. “Either you come with me, or your brethren will be slaughtered.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.” But her voice betrays her uncertainty, and Yon-Rogg takes notice.

“Vers —”

Her knuckles thrum white.

“Carol,” he amends. “You do not have the advantage. The safety of your kin is in the balance. Is that something you are willing to risk?” Then, a bit smugly: “I know I taught you better than that.”

Immediately, she drops him. Yon-Rogg lands in an unceremonious heap, and the force of his impact kicks up another cloud of grime. But no matter how satisfying that felt, the situation does not change. Maria and Monica have been stolen, squandered away God-knows-where, and if she hurt him now, it could result in their immediate execution.

Carol floats down beside Yon-Rogg, who manages to sit up on his own. He doesn’t seem particularly fazed.

“So,” he says, “do we have a deal?”

* * *

Yon-Rogg’s ship is sparse, old. It is nothing like the Kree-issued battle-craft he’d helped pilot back on their missions. There is no glowing diagram monitor, no well-stocked weaponry. It is a definite downgrade from what they are used to, and Carol cannot help herself.

“The Supreme Intelligence can’t be happy with you.” She eyes the peeling paint on the roof, the outdated combat modules. “This model is crap.”

“It works just fine. This is a single-person operation. I don’t need any more than what’s here.”

“Well, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I am _not_ a beggar,” Yon-Rogg retorts, flipping switches on the dash. “Despite your rather dramatic send-off, I was neither demoted nor disgraced upon my return to Hala. I have served the Kree empire for far longer than you have. One defeat would not necessitate such dishonor.”

“Great.” She folds her arms. “So they completely ignored my message. Figures.”

“Don’t sound too disappointed.”

“I’m just bummed they didn’t throw you in jail.”

His scowl deepens at that; briefly, Carol wonders if she’d hurt his feelings. After all, six years of friendship is a difficult thing to relinquish, regardless of the aftermath. Though she despises him for everything — for the kidnapping, for the genocide, for the lies — it is strange to divorce half a decade of memories from the man sitting before her. Maybe Yon-Rogg feels the same.

_Good,_ spits a vicious little voice in the back of her brain. _Now he knows what it’s like to be betrayed._

At this, she straightens, the old flare of hatred rekindled in her heart. Yon-Rogg is no longer her friend, no longer her commander. He is her enemy and her captor — but perhaps he had always been those things, too, even if she hadn’t always known it.

“Not gonna restrain me?” Her voice is dry. “I thought I was your prisoner.”

He snorts. “What for? You could melt the entire hull of a missile in a single blow.”

“Thanks. Remember that when I pull you apart by your limbs.”

The ship starts to hum, wobbling slightly. Despite their skirmish, the fuzziness from drinking hasn’t quite faded, so Carol focuses on the stars past the windshield to keep her mind on-track.

“Transport will take seventy-nine hours,” Yon-Rogg says. “If you try to sabotage anything, or contact anyone besides myself, or prolong our travel for any reason at all, Minn-erva is under orders to dispose of the humans immediately.”

Carol shakes her head. “Wow. And here I thought you couldn’t go any lower.”

“I suppose we’re both full of surprises,” Yon-Rogg stands, just as the ship bursts into space. Carol braces her legs, managing not to trip or slide, but grips the wall nonetheless. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

He tries to pass her; Carol catches him by the arm. “You’re not going to get away from this,” she promises. Her fingers tighten against him. “Once this is over, I’m going to throw you into prison and weld the door shut.”

Yon-Rogg’s face is familiar, but after nearly a year, it’s as though Carol is seeing at him anew. All of her first impressions of him re-run through her train-of-thought: that he’s older, visibly so, in a way that is attractive and off-putting at the same time. That everything about him announces experience, leadership. And still, it is odd to see resentment there, in the man who had overseen her life from the moment she’d woken up in the Starforce medical center, the first quasi-human face she’d known as a Kree.

Yon-Rogg leans forward. “Not everything should be a show of power, Vers,” he says — not quite chastising, but close enough. “Your tactics are getting old.”

“Call me ‘Vers’ again. I guarantee that all my tactics are just as painful as when they were new.”

Yon-Rogg scoffs; turns away. “Let me go.” A pause. “ _Carol._ ”

She does, and Yon-Rogg disappears into the next room. Carol sits down in the ship’s passenger seat, watching the flow of space around them. She thinks of Maria, of Monica. When she hears Yon-Rogg slam a door from somewhere in the back, she decides to ignore it.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there isn't a lot of good banter here, but they're still super angry with one another right now, so that's going to be fun. Hopefully I can do justice to Carol's wit in later chapters.
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken's poem, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out". I'm @yonvers on Twitter and @narkik on Tumblr. Carol Danvers, if you're reading this, I love you more than life itself.


End file.
